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I think it’s time to put this blog to rest. While I’ve still got lots of random thoughts and stories that I’d like to share, it doesn’t seem like I will be able to keep up with blogging and schoolwork.

However, for any latecomers to the blog, here’s a list of some of my most popular posts:

As the traffic in Wandegaya comes to a halt, a man on a motorcycle casually puts one foot to the pavement. He absentmindedly chews on the plastic rosary that hangs from his neck, as he waits for the intersection to clear. A woman in neat business clothes stands on the median. She preaches in Luganda to the traffic, the Bible in her hand acting as punctuation for her gestures. She directs her passionate tirade at the man on his motorcycle, and he gives her a look that expresses everything: “Can’t you see that I am Catholic too? Don’t you know that everyone here already has a faith? Stop wasting your time.” Traffic begins to flow again, and the woman’s voice is drowned out by the noise of people moving on with their lives.

Before I know what is wrong, I hear sobbing and gasping through the wall. Sounds of anguish that seem to have no beginning and no end. Irene nervously leads me around the corner, into Fiona’s bedroom. The girl, normally so strong and full of joy, lies shaking in the fetal position on her small bed. My eyes automatically scan the room for hazards and examine her body for signs of injury, but thankfully there is nothing to be seen. Her cries crescendo to a point where inhuman wailing is mingled with too-deep gasps for air. Irene rushes to fetch Grandma from next door, leaving me alone with Fiona’s suffering and my own feelings of powerlessness. I carefully reach out to place a hand on Fiona’s shoulder, and begin to mutter reassuring words. Fiona doesn’t seem to notice, but the reassurance is mostly for myself anyways.

The next instant, Grandma appears at the door. She carries herself with an air of authority and ancient wisdom, so I am certain she must know the cure for whatever is wrong with Fio. The old woman walks in, examines Fiona as if this is an ailment she knows well, and then begins to administer her remedy; she kneels to pray. I had forgotten that Grandma makes her living by travelling around preaching and “saving” people.

Within minutes – as if they instinctively knew something was wrong at home – the whole family has gathered. As I watch my family praying to dispel the evil spirits that have taken hold of Fiona, I feel a profound appreciation for the power of Faith in situations where there seems to be no other answer. But I still wish that they would call a doctor.

—–

I asked him if he could define the religion of the forest more closely.

He said, in a precise academic way, “We cannot call it a religion. It is a set of beliefs. We don’t pray to God because in our understanding God is not accessible to humans. It [he meant the idea of God] has many other problems and has no time for humans.”

– The Masque of Africa, V.S. Naipaul

—–

Sunday morning. I sway and clap along with the church choir. I am the only foreigner amidst a sea of penitent Ugandans, but for once it is not the colour of my skin that makes me feel like an alien. It is my disbelief that sets me apart. I am humbled by the strength of this community, and wonder if it is yet another act of privilege for me to choose spirituality over organised religion.

Giant murals of The Last Supper, St. Peter, and The Virgin Mary look down upon the service from above the altar. “Who painted you?” I think, as I examine their distorted proportions and garish colours. “Why are you the only other white people here?”

In Rome, I saw the same subject matter painted by the master artists of the Renaissance. Their works were rendered with so much inspiration, it felt as though the heavens might open at any instant, with angels and saints waiting to welcome us into their transcendent realm. Here in Kalisizo, twenty foot tall, white-skinned angels seem more oppressive than inspiring.

—–

And now, though the name was given her by her father, she felt a love-hate for the name Susan.

“I feel that it is so much part of the colonial experience, which was not pleasant. When a person or race comes and imposes on you, it takes away everything, and it is a vicious thing to do. Much as I think the West and modernity is a good thing, it did take away our culture and civilization, and even if it is gentle it does make us doubt our roots. For example, the missionaries brainwashed you into rejecting the gods, and imposing their own ideas, dogma and doctrines, saying that theirs were the best. There was no two-way dialogue and them trying to understand how our minds and heritage or culture worked. I feel that people had a civilisation. It was different but it was their own. I taught myself to write in Luganda.” After writing her poems in English. “I feel humiliated that the school did not teach us our mother tongue.”

– The Masque of Africa, V.S. Naipaul

—–

Irene took me to see an inter-school festival. We would have to sit through the Bible reading and adjudication before we could watch the main event: traditional dance. The organizers insisted on seating me at the front of the audience, in a big chair, while Irene squeezed into the crowded bleachers that filled the back of the room. I don’t know who they thought I was, but I did not deserve this honour.

I will admit the bible reading bored me and I was struggling to stay awake. But a change in atmosphere brought my attention back. A girl was being tested individually on her memorization of a passage. I did not need to know Luganda or the Bible to tell that she was struggling. She stuttered, and fidgeted, then froze. An adjudicator prompted her with a question and the whole room was silent in anticipation of her answer. She hesitated, then murmured an uncertain response. The entire audience burst into laughter.

The red, blushing glow of shame pushed through the darkness of her skin, but she managed to blurt out the right answer and hold back her tears. My heart thudded with anger at the crowd, and empathy for the girl. I do not believe that the Bible was intended to be used as a means for publicly humiliating children.

As the girl left the room, one of the teachers sitting in the row behind me leaned forward and asked, “Do you know how to read the bible?”

“No,” I replied bluntly.

“Are you Muslim?”

“No.”

“What is your religion?”

“I have no religion. I believe in morality, and in treating all beings with love and respect, but I do not believe in religious institutions,” was my response. I tried to be diplomatic, but was still feeling charged with anger. Some of the teachers had been the ones to laugh the loudest at the little girl’s mistake.

That was the end of our conversation. The teacher didn’t care about how reading Conversations With God changed my worldview. He didn’t care that I cried when I saw Michelangelo’s Pieta, and when I heard the choir at New College Chapel. He didn’t care that the cathedrals of Florence and London and Vienna fuel my love of architecture. He didn’t care that my atheism is one of the most carefully considered aspects of my identity. We could have shared common values and beliefs beyond the confines of his Catholicism, but all that mattered to him was the fact that I could not read the Bible. And for once, I was not in the mood to compromise my beliefs in order to forge a fleeting friendship.

—–

When my host-father is feeling particularly affectionate or proud, he will say to me: “Now you are a Muganda woman,” or “Now Julia is a Catholic.” These praises seem to be interchangeable. He thinks I should get baptized while I am in Uganda… Maybe I should. It would make him so happy. And it would be a satisfyingly ironic twist in the complex dynamics of religion in Africa.

This happens every time I have a blog: I put up a few well-written posts, people compliment me on my writing, then I set weird expectations for myself and feel like I can only post if I’ve come up with a literary masterpiece. I need to get over my perfectionism. So, here’s an randomized un-edited post, full of bad pictures and nothing worth reading. Higher quality posts coming soon.

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* If anyone can guess what’s happening in 4 or more of these, I’ll bring you back a giant pack of Garden Tea + ginger + Masala spice, and we’ll have a Ugandan-style tea party

“Westerners have the clocks, Africans have the time.” ~ clock at ICU Guesthouse

Mr. Buligwanga and I sat in the shade of the mango tree, sipping chai and chatting for hours. We talked about agriculture, but Mr. Buligwanga’s concept of farming goes deeper than his knowledge of seeds and soils and tools. For him, as for many other farmers around the world, he has little need for clocks because his personal timeline is tied to that of his crops and livestock. Farming is a matter of understanding time in terms of seasons and life-cycles, where there is little need to hurry unless a storm is approaching. Seasons become years, years become decades, and at Mr. Buligwanga’s age, the decades of farming stretch so far back that a few hours spent sitting with a curious student seems like no time at all.

He spoke of his farm as a part of his own life-cycle. He told me about the legacy he hopes to leave for his community, and about how the seasons have changed since his childhood. We discussed the ways in which a person may find fulfillment in life. He challenged me to envision my life at future milestones, and to think about how people and environments will shape the life I lead.

When our tea was finished the old man leaned back in his chair and said, “So Juli, I believe you had some questions for me, for your research?”

I smiled to myself, realising that he had been trying to test the patience of The Young Westerner, just as I had been trying to learn about the livelihood of The Ugandan Farmer. It would seem that I passed his test. I pulled out my notebook and asked him the formulaic questions he was expecting, but I had already been getting answers for hours.

Boda-bodas, Uganda’s infamous motorcycle taxis, are both fascinating and scary. At every landmark, major intersection, and taxi park you’ll find hordes of men with motorcycles (of questionable roadworthiness) eager to drive you anywhere at low-cost and high-speed. They’re an effective way to transport people and things – all kinds of things – from place to place. But they can also be a bit hazardous, and there are some unappealing stereotypes surrounding boda-boda drivers.

The danger factor, combined with my general fear of speed, has kept me from riding on a boda for the past couple of weeks. However, yesterday my host-father unknowingly forced me to face my fears by asking a boda driver-cum-translator to take me around the village to interview farmers. I took my time digging my helmet out from under my bed, collecting my notebooks and greeting the driver, but eventually pride and practicality won out. It was time to beat my nerves into submission and get on with my job. I put my helmet on (wishing that I could also don a full suit of hockey equipment), took a deep breath and slid onto the boda. I prayed that my host-father had a preference for sensible drivers.

The driver must have noticed how tense I was, because he drove veeeery slowly for the first couple of kilometers. Gradually, I grew more comfortable and started to enjoy the incredible views of lush farms and rolling hills. The boda began to speed up to a normal driving speed and I was feeling okay… until I noticed The Hill of Impending Doom, covered in Potholes of Certain Death. I knew that we would have to accelerate to reach the top, so I clung to the back of the seat and hoped that we wouldn’t end up looking like smooshed papaya on the side of the road. With every bump my heart jumped and I clung to the seat with white knuckles. My adrenaline was racing as we reached the top.

Fortunately, the next minute we turned a corner and parked in the driveway of a farm. We were greeted by a lovely old lady wearing a purple gomez and a huge smile. She showed us her many pigs and adorable piglets, her bio-gas reactor, and her magnificent trellises covered in passionfruit. I didn’t get all the information I had wanted, but by the end of the visit I had calmed down enough to get back on the motorcycle. With each farm visit, it became easier and easier to get back on the boda, and by the time we returned home I was relaxed enough to enjoy the sunset.

I’m still nervous about boda-bodas, but at least I know there’s one driver that I can rely on to keep me safe(ish). I’ve been learning every day since arriving in Uganda that my fears often create expectations that are worse than the danger itself. Unless we push ourselves to face the things that intimidate us, we will forever limit our own growth and ability to do good work.

Hey! I just left you,
and this is crazy,
but here’s my number,
so call me maybe!

(011-256) 79 048 9324

*EDIT: My awesome host siblings showed me how to buy cheap calling packages for North America. If you’re in Canada, just send me a text with your name and the time you’d like to talk. Then I’ll go buy airtime and call you (it ends up costing me about $2 for 45 mins… sweet deal, huh?)

If you call from Canada, I don’t have to pay for incoming calls… but maybe check with your phone company about what it will cost you. I would love to hear from anyone in EWB, and family and friends throughout the summer, so don’t hesitate to call. But keep in mind that Ugandan time is 9 hours ahead of Albertan time.